On the photo, here, we see the new father getting in close to see the radiant look on his kid’s little face. I’ve thrown seed and sired children hither and yon since I was not much more than a child myself and so I can write, with some authority, that the face of a a child is like a tunnel opening onto the essence of the world. I understand exactly the sudden change in rhythms of life, of values, the recalibration of what is serious, what is funny and what is not.
The mother is Rebecca Jobson, whom you saw in the main photo, and whose erotic value has definitely not diminished after childbrith.
Four dazzling waves from 2015. The jazz-like perfection of a world champion.
There’s never any bullshit with Mick Fanning. He’s no ass-out trapeze artist like Gabriel. There’s no crazy jive like Filipe. He’s not jamming junk down your throat like Julian Wilson.
Three world titles, a probable forth by the time December comes around. Who’s going to argue with that?
I assembled this compendium of Mick’s nine-point plus rides from 2015 to disprove the central theory in a story that claimed judges were pushing him through heats with all their weight.
Let’s examine the charge.
“Enter the Mick Fanning Complex. The judges (and commentators) apparently love nothing more than watching the EXACT same combination of turns on the outside to a half-layback safety snap on the inside close-out section. Predictability would be an understatement. Mick Fanning is often hailed as the most consistent surfer on tour. No shit he is. The dude has been doing the exact same thing for the last 15 years. Look at any contest footage (or video parts for that matter) of his over the course of his career. Besides his boards and boardies getting a bit shorter, he looks, literally, exactly the same. Forget “do it in your sleep” Mick could do it in a fuckin’ coma.”
I can’t figure the whole switch out. What’s wrong with a system that rewards perfection of technique? Mick Fanning is a like a jazz musician blowing a horn and being really part of it. It’s part of him.
How about teaching your gal (or stud) to surf? The whole claiming thing?
I shot a nice sized omilu (blue-fin trevally for all you haole types) yesterday at 65′ deep, about a half-mile off Kauai’s South Shore.
For deep-ish dives I like to use my 130cm gun. It’s got good range, and enough power to take down pretty much anything in the ocean smaller than a tuna. It kicks like a mule though. You really need to lock your wrist and elbow before taking a shot.
I know this, the recoil has smashed the loading butt into my face on more than a few shots. But the fish was under a ledge and I couldn’t get a good angle without repositioning myself and spooking the thing, so I took an awkward limp wristed shot. Got smacked in the mouth pretty good, little bit of a fat lip. Which sucks when you’re two atmospheres down and have been holding your breath for over a minute.
Landed the fish though.
The point being, we all do stupid stuff, from time to time.
Here’s some dumb things surfers like to do, even though we should all know better.
Teach your partner to surf
It seems like such a good idea. You and your partner of whatever gender strokes your fancy sharing an evening glass off. The sun setting on the horizon, light playing off the ocean surface, refracted rainbows dancing in the droplets caught in your eyelashes. So romantic, so amazing, so mistaken.
The reality is that you’ve got a new surf buddy, but they suck, and you can’t just ditch them when the waves get good. Overhead barrels at your favorite spot? Tough luck, you’re driving the coast looking for waist-high garbage they can splash around in.
No matter how much you love someone, there will be times you just don’t want to spend another second looking at their stupid fucking face.
And take it from me, a guy who’s shared his life with the same woman for the last fifteen years, long-term relationships aren’t always a walk in the park. No matter how much you love someone, there will be times you just don’t want to spend another second looking at their stupid fucking face.
Say goodbye to using surfing as an escape, a chance to recharge and realize how little all your petty problems matter compared to the love you two share. Because they’re right there on the shoulder, flailing around like a drowning seagull, about to drop in on you.
Put your board on the roof without strapping it down
A gust of wind on a calm day, a flying board, that awful crunch that makes you cringe before you even turn around to inspect the damage.
Or you go even further, backing out of your parking spot, hitting the brakes, thinking, “What was that noise?” as it clatters to the ground, then backing right over the top of your new 6’0″ in the El Porto parking lot.
Secure your board before you do anything else. Once that baby’s strapped down tight you can go ahead and change, or shoot the shit with your buddies, or ogle that hot chick doing yoga on top of the berm.
Buy a board based on how well your favorite pro rides it
I’ve never ridden a Hypto Krypto. The board looks fun and all, short and fat and flat usually makes for a good time. It’s definitely marketed well, Anderson uses the thing to make life look so damn easy.
But I’m not him, and neither are the ten million kooks I’ve seen flailing in the whitewash on tiny epoxy import Kryptos they picked up after reading some rave review online. Sure, homeboy can gush about how well his 5’4″ works in any condition the ocean can dream up, but he’s one of the best surfers in the world. What works for him doesn’t really translate for us mortals.
Same deal with every shape that Dane dreams up.
Claim a barrel
I was nineteen, a week into my first trip to Costa Rica, and surfing super fun overhead barrels at Playa Avellanas. It was a magic session, some of the best warm water surf I’d ever experienced, a filmer friend was on the beach capturing all the action. I linked into the best barrel of my life up to that point, six seconds long, so deep, so stoked. I couldn’t wait to see the footage.
Later that night I got my chance. It was a two-second head dip. Bent at the waist, lip hitting my back, so awkward and terrible. And then I claimed it. Hard. So hard it’d make a brazzo pro wince. Shouting and pumping my fist and carrying on like I’d just won the world title.
Thank god it was 1999 and uploading embarrassing shit to social media wasn’t a thing yet.
The madmen who have a kink for giant surf will always fascinate me. I wait for their feats, as northern hemisphere winter rolls around again, with bated breath. This year’s El Nino is certain to go absolutely wild, they say, and so I will watch the purple blobs with even more anticipation. How do they do it? How do they sit out in rolling insanity and then throw themselves over the ledge? How? How?
South African filmmaker Michael Oblowitz shares my driving curiosity. Before his latest, Heavy Water, there was Twiggy. He followed his countryman and champion big wave surfer Grant “Twiggy” Baker out to Mavericks and captured the fury of the ocean and was captured himself. He tells me:
“I was able to go undercover out there with a super fast twin hulled speedboat and two ultra high speed Red Cameras with Hydroflex mounts and gets as close to the action as possible without a jet ski or swimming. The incredibly powerful slow motion close up footage of Mavericks breaking became the impetus along with meeting Nathan for Heavy Water.”
And I get it. I get not being able to tear eyes away from the horrible sea at its worst. We share an addiction, I suppose. Not the addiction of those who ride but the addiction of those who try to figure out what dwells in the heart of the exceptional man. Twiggy and Heavy Water are two sessions on a therapists couch. Two stabs at defining the closest thing on earth to Nietzche’s ubermensch.
Thrive on the energy this predatory little man expels…
This three-minute short of Mason Ho at Sunset Beach is something that bears watching. It constitutes, according to its architect, 26-year-old Mason, of ” trying a new 7’1” from last year’s quiver at Sunset Beach on Oct.3.2015. I grabbed it, surfed it and put it away thinking it was my 6’10″, then we went through the clips and I realized it was my 7’1″. Filming by Rory Pringle.”
There is also, he writes, “footage from Nick Pollet of my first trip to Chopes (Tahiti). There was a clip or two not used in the Rip Curl edit that I kinda liked (the beat downs). *CANT wait to go back there with MY boards and APPLY what I’m thinking. The song is Neil Young, Cowgirl in the Sand …chopped.
Anyway, the Sunset gear reminded me of an interview I did with Mason after he won a contest there two years ago. The story was called Mason Ho on the Horns of a Sunset Bull.
Forever does this little maestro dazzle me.
Is that the Sunset Master? The Prince of Power?
MASON: (Laughter) Fuck. That. Tell me about your speech. There may be a pedantic troll or two online who’ll say otherwise, but, personally, I loved it. So light, so breezy, so you! Oh my gosh, that thing is… terrible. I don’t really remember it to be honest. I just remember screwing up. You even used the word “surreal”! I just remember when I said that everyone kinda looked at me, like… what? That was funny. I shoulda just shut up. You grew up at Backyards, there, did you always have yourself pencilled in for a win at Sunset some day? Driving past there every day I try and make some eye contact with it and think about it, like, “Come on, I gotta win one time, I gotta win this place.” That was super cool to win, right there. But it’s a baby step. It feels like a little baby step. I want more, yeah. I want more. What did your dad, the four-time winner, say before the final? The only thing he did ask, I remember, I’d run over to wax my board real quick and he called and my friend’s, like, “Oh Brah! Your Dad’s on the phone” and then I talked to him and he’s, like, “What, do I have time? I wanna run home and grab a beer! Can I drink one before your final?” And I’m, “No you got no time, you gotta stay right there” ’cause he was helping me spot the lineup. I said, “You can’t go anywhere. I’ll be lost if you’re not there in the spot!” And he’s, like, ok whatever, and then when we started the final I was looking for him and I couldn’t find him. A couple of minutes later I saw him back in his spot and I was like, that fucker went and grabbed a beer! Heavy! You throw much of a party? Yeah, man, we had a little thing for sure. I came home and… yep… drank a couple of beers with Pottz (Martin Potter). And then ate a little bit of food and then we dug out. We went to the Surfer Bar (at the Turtle Bay Hilton), just snipered it. Got pretty screwed up.
You want to light up on the high point? To be honest, I forgot a little… spurt… of it. But the craziest thing I witnessed that night was Burger’s (Keoni Nozaki) entry into the place. I was there already. I went with a couple of friends and we couldn’t get in touch with Cheeseburger and we’re in there and we’re all taking this group photo and it was mellow, everyone was buzzed, it was pretty cool, and all of a sudden Burger came in and the Surfer Bar, they’re already timid on all of us, we’ve used all our strings already, so any time we show up the question is, if they’ll let us in or not. Are you going to be mellow this time? Yeah, please, let us in! So we’re trying to be good and Burger came in just so hot. Yeah baby! Screaming at the top of his lungs. Jumping up and down trying to break the floor or his ankles, whatever could break first. I kept looking at security and grabbing Burger by the mouth and, like, “Brah, shoosh, shut up, you gotta be quiet!” And Burger was screaming FUCK THAT! FUCK YEAH! YEAH! YEAH! Luckily, we got away with it. That was the high point for me. When you win a big contest, experience suggests pretty gals want to pal up. How was your experience? Ho ho ho. I thought I got a pretty good chick that night. I mean, I didn’t know where all the girls were, it was all rained out everywhere, so we got lucky. The Surfer Bar had the usuals, a nice little group of chicks and we all picked one and went our ways. I was stoked ’cause I always thought that if I won I was gonna bomb and get a nice hot girl and dig out. It was funny cause we did it like we do it every night when we go out. I had a chick at the Surfer Bar and I could’ve gone home and shut it short but then I was like, we’re gonna go, we’re doing the rounds. So we ended up a the Oakley house and just staying til four in the morning. And I remember towards the end of the night I was, like, yeah, this is how I want it, this is how I want to do it every night, just looking at a couple of handfuls of the boys, a couple of chicks, the last ones who could handle. Gals try harder for champs. I think she gave me a little more time. Usually, they would’ve been, fuck this guy already, I can’t believe he’s making me wait this long. But she was kicking back… kept checking on me… and I was, yeah, this is sick… Ain’t it great being a champ. Ha! Fuck! I don’t know. Being the champ. Fuck. It feels super good to win but I just remember the whole ceremony, you get chaired onto this podium first and you’re sitting there all by yourself. It’s all lonely. I was, like, come on boys, hurry up and get on with this thing. It feels awkward winning. But, it’s cool, I live for that.